


Romance among the Stones

by Findswoman



Series: The Lasan Series [11]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Engagement, F/M, Lasan, Lasat, Near Death, Romance, betrothal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 23:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: A young Zeb, now a gifted lieutenant in the Lasan High Honor Guard, plans something elaborate for his ladylove—though it does not come off without setbacks.





	1. Chapter 1

“Is that _her?_ ”  
  
“Yup, that's her.”  
  
Two officers of the Lasan High Honor Guard, both women, stood in a café in Lasan’s capital city of Lira Zel. They were watching a younger woman who sat alone at a table at the café's back corner, wearing a sunset-red dress and cloak and engrossed in a small book with a gold cover. Long, midnight-purple hair flowed over her shoulders, and a striking, swirling pattern of wine-colored stripes adorned her lithe arms.  
  
“So, let me get this straight.” The taller of the two Guardswomen, a rangy, angular type wearing a field musician’s badge, sniffed in disbelief. “That tender, delicate... _thing_ is what your brother wants us to take all the way out there on a hot, blustery day like _this?_ Karabast, we’ll probably end up carrying her halfway!”  
  
“Hey, don’t you underestimate that _tender, delicate thing,_ ” retorted her companion, who had a more muscular build and the insignia of a light ordnance specialist. “She’ll call down the lightning of the Ashla on you.”  
  
“Aw, Priska, you didn’t tell me she was a spark-flinger!” The tall, rangy woman grimaced as she craned closer to get a better look at the girl in the corner. “Yep, she’s got the ring-medallion in her hair and everything. I didn’t think any brother of yours would go for one of _them!_ ”  
  
Priska shrugged. “Me neither, at first. But she’s all right, really. We like her.”  
  
“I suppose he’s into her cute stripes.”  
  
“Oh, not just, not just…” Priska shook her head, chuckling absently.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Nothing. Can we get this done with, Maranga? He’s waiting out there."  
  
Maranga shook her head and muttered something about “your brother and his crazy ideas” as she and Priska approached the corner table. The young shaman looked up from her book as she saw the two uniformed, armored women standing over her. “Oh, hello, Priska. And, um… hello.”  
  
“Hi,” Maranga replied with a curt nod.  
  
Priska spoke up. “Shulma, this is my friend Middle Lieutenant Maranga Patithi, of the Honor Guard Drum Corps. Maranga, this is Shulma Trilasha, second-degree shaman of the Academy, and... my… brother’s… girlfriend.”  
  
“That is exactly what I am.” Shulma extended her hand, which Maranga shook brusquely. “Pleased to meet you.”  
  
“Likewise,” was the clipped reply.  
  
“Anyway,” Priska continued, “Zeb sent us to get you."  
  
“Oh!” The shaman immediately perked up and closed her book. “Is he back already?”  
  
“Yup. The transport from the Basalt Mountains arrived at base this morning.”  
  
“Is he there now?”  
  
“No, he’s…” Priska paused and exchanged glances with Maranga. “He’s outside town. That’s… why he sent us to get you.”  
  
Shulma hastily stowed her book in the finely worked leather satchel that hung on the back of her chair, which she then shouldered as she stood up. “All right, then. I'm ready.”  
  
“Good.” Maranga stepped forward, her arms crossed sternly. “Because this isn’t going to be just some pleasant stroll through the Royal Display Gardens. We’re going out into the wilderness, and it’s going to be rocky, dirty, and steep.”  
  
Priska rolled her eyes. “Aw, knock it off, Maranga. It’s not like she hasn’t been out there before.” She winked at the shaman, who gave her a querying look, and smirked back at her. “Trust me. You have.”  
  
“Fine, whatever,” grunted Maranga. “I just want Her Reverence to understand exactly what she’s getting into here.”  
  
“I understand.” Shulma smiled up at Maranga through serene emerald eyes. “And I’m ready.”

* * *

  
The trail was long, circuitous, and treacherous, rising and falling without warning, ridden with deceptive switchbacks and crusted with loose rock. A relentless afternoon sun beat down on the three women as they made their way arduously along. To Maranga’s considerable surprise, the pretty young shaman uttered barely a peep the entire way; she was sure-footed and resolute as she negotiated the steep, rocky path. For it had not taken her long to realize that she had indeed been here before: looking ahead in the distance was the magnificent rock spire known as the Warrior, which each year the eligible young males climbed to show off their daring and prowess to the crowds of watching females. Shulma smiled to herself as she remembered Zeb’s attempt five years before, just before they had begun courting. Back then he had been—well, less than successful, because his mind had been on his little brother, whom he had left back at the Storms’ End fair. Was he going to try again now? _Darling Garazeb,_ she thought, _certainly you know by now that you don’t have to prove your love—or earn mine—with bold tricks and daring deeds...  
_  
As they approached the spire, Priska guided Shulma away from the main pathway leading up to its base, bringing her instead down a narrow side path that descended steeply into the woods. Maranga followed as well, and in just a few minutes they arrived in a pleasant clearing closely surrounded by geniper trees and blooming mazna bushes. Set just below the Warrior’s west side, the clearing commanded a view of the formation in its entire redoubtable height, from its base to its needle-like summit. But more remarkable was what lay on the ground directly before them. Spread out in the center of the clearing was a gray-green blanket of heavy, rough material—a standard-issue Honor Guard blanket, judging by the stamp in the corner. On it sat two large, delicately embroidered cushions that were definitely not standard Honor Guard issue, along with a large wicker picnic hamper. Zeb, however, was nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Aw, a picnic!” Priska beamed. “How sweet! And look.” She nudged one of the cushions with her foot. “I see Gran let him borrow a couple of her parlor cushions. How about that!”  
  
“Yeah, how about that,” Maranga grumbled. “How about if he actually showed up?”  
  
“He’s gotta be around somewhere. Probably just stepped into the woods for a sec. Say”—Priska touched Shulma on the shoulder—“are you gonna be all right here for now?”  
  
“Yes, I—I think so.”  
  
“Good. We’ll be down the trail if you need us.”  
  
“But you won’t need us,” smirked Maranga, giving Shulma a teasing nudge with her elbow. The shaman lowered her eyes and shied away.  
  
The two Guardswomen disappeared up the narrow side path. Shulma stood still for a few moments, waiting. Perhaps Zeb was hiding behind one of the geniper trees, ready to come up behind her and take her in his arms—the same way he had greeted her so many times before outside the Honor Guard base or at the foot of Mount Straga. But nothing happened. She walked around the perimeter of the clearing, looking around and calling his name; still nothing. Her concern grew. Where could her young officer be? If he had just stepped into the woods (as Priska had put it), certainly he would have returned by now. Ashla forbid that he had met with danger! She signed the Triangle over her heart...  
  
“HEY! SHULMA!”  
  
The shout came from overhead. Shulma looked up, and her eyes widened like those of a frightened convor chick. There, gripping fast to the side of the Warrior with three prehensile appendages and waving down at her with the fourth, was Zeb, clambering deftly and swiftly along.  
  
“Zeb!— _lir’Ashl’aka!_ —what are you—”  
  
“C’mon up, you’ll be able to see better!”  
  
“But Zeb—”  
  
“Just c’mon up!”  
  
Shulma ran up the narrow side path, then up the main path to the base of the Warrior. She watched in amazement as her beloved Guardsman pulled himself up deftly from one crevice to the next, from one foothold to the next. Higher and higher he went, his strong hands and feet grappling with the ancient, striated stone as if in an ancient war dance. Shards of purple-gray rock shot out from the cracks in the rock as he dug his claws in. Shulma jumped back from the spire and gasped a prayer to the Ashla as one particularly sizable crack gave way beneath his grip, sending larger chunks of rock hurtling down. But he quickly regained his hold, launching himself upward with renewed zest. Nervous as she was, Shulma had to admit that Zeb was putting on quite an impressive display; the first time he had done this, he hadn’t even made it halfway up. He was almost at the needle-like summit now, a full forty meters above ground. Just a little higher…  
  
...until at last all of his sturdy appendages encircled the towering needle. He drew himself upright—so tall, so proud!—and waved down to her. The sun glinted off his leaf-green eyes, off the sharp, bright teeth that showed themselves in his grin.  
  
Five years ago Shulma would have cheered loudly for him; now she could only stand agape, at once impressed by Zeb’s skill and fearful for his safety. _My warrior atop the Warrior—Ashla guard him!  
_  
“HEY DARLIN’!” he yelled down at her. She started as she heard him.  
  
“W-what?!”  
  
“WATCH THIS!” Shifting his grip on the spire, he began to rummage in his pocket.  
  
“Zeb, what are you—”  
  
“NOW WHERE IS THAT THING...” he growled, just loudly enough for her to hear, then began twisting himself awkwardly to one side. For a moment he lost his grip, causing more rock dust to fall from the spire. But he quickly regained it, and began rummaging in his other pocket while his feet and other hand clung desperately to the column of rock. Barely able to watch, Shulma buried her face in her hands—and felt a sudden electrical crackle of pain behind her eyes.  
  
“Zeb—be careful, please—”  
  
“AW KARABAST! DID I LEAVE IT DOWN IN THE— _AAAGHHHH!!_ ”  
  
Zeb’s words dissolved in a scream as the needle gave way beneath him with a loud, grisly crack.. He slid clumsily down, scrabbling desperately for hold against what was left of the rock, but to no avail. Further and further down he slid, shouting and cursing and scrabbling; each time the spindle of rock crumbled to pieces against his grip, as if pushing him away.  
  
“ZEB! NO!” Shulma cried, signing the Triangle. The pain in her head surged again as there was another tremendous crack—the summit now fully gave way, launching Zeb into the free air. There was now only one thing she could do—  
  
“ASHLA PROTECT MY LOVE!” Shulma struck her foot on the ground, then threw her hands upward and forward. Golden light surged up through her body and shot from her hands in crackling bolts toward Zeb, who now was hurtling at full speed toward the ground. The golden lightning struck him straight on, freezing him in midair and enveloping him in a lambent blaze of ever-changing color. Shulma clenched her teeth in concentration, keeping her hands outstretched above her—and for several moments Zeb hung there, motionless and bathed in light, as the rest of Lasan’s mightiest spire tumbled to pieces below him.  
  
Only when the gravel and dust had settled and the air was clear again, did she begin to lower him, very slowly, very gently—closer, closer—careful, now—almost there—  
  
—until he came to rest, on his feet, atop the pile of broken rock.  
  
Shulma released the bolt of light, causing the iridescent blaze around Zeb to flicker and disappear—and then she sank onto a nearby boulder, spent from her mystical effort. She watched him as he blinked and looked about him in bewilderment, taking in the wreckage around him. A muttered “karabast!” escaped him as he realized what had happened; a pang shot through her as well to see the noble stone sentinel of Lira Zel reduced to rubble. And yet pride filled her, for there he was still, _her warrior atop the Warrior—_ the last to conquer it before its fall. _There’s even something about that in the ancient writings, isn’t there?_ she thought, smiling to herself. _Yes, of course: Fourth Tractate of Prophecy, book three, chapter… eleven or twelve, I think it is? The last warrior to scale the Warrior is… is…_ She couldn’t remember exactly how it went, but it would come back to her eventually.  
  
Shulma glanced up at Zeb again, and this time his eye caught hers. He waved to her and immediately came clambering down the rocks, then staggered over to the boulder where she sat and sank down beside her, out of breath.  
  
“Oh, Shulma—darlin’—did you see what happened—the Warrior—it’s—”  
  
His words dissolved in breathless gasps as he steadied himself on her shoulder. She nestled her head against his and slid comforting arms around him. “Zeblove… it’s all right…”  
  
It was then, as she sat there holding him, that the rest of that text from the Fourth Tractate struck her like a falling boulder:  
  
 _The last warrior to scale the Warrior is the last warrior of Lasan._  
  
 **to be continued**


	2. Chapter 2

Zeb and Shulma sat together for several minutes beside the wreckage of the Warrior, holding each other, saying nothing. At last they made their way down the trail back to the clearing, leaning on each other. Shulma felt her heart pounding at those terrible words of prophecy: _The last warrior to scale the Warrior is the last warrior of Lasan._ Was the valiant young officer beside her really—?  
  
_No. Mustn’t think of it now. Just be glad that he’s here and safe._  
  
Once they reached the clearing, Zeb helped her onto one of the cushions and seated himself beside her on the other. He opened the picnic hamper and was about to reach in when he stopped suddenly and put his hand on hers.  
  
“Darlin’—Shulma—you did that, didn’t ya?” he asked, softly.  
  
“D-did what?” She squeezed his hand back. _What if it’s true—what if he really is—_ “Dear Garazeb, do you think _I_ caused the Warrior to fall? I’m only a Second, you know!”  
  
“No, no, of course not that! It’s just I was climbin’, and it started fallin’ apart on me, and I fell off, and then—well, I dunno what then, because all of a sudden I was just standin’ there on the rocks, and… you _did_ somethin’, didn’t ya?”  
  
“D-did something?” Her eyes were turned downward as she spoke, and she gripped him harder. _If you are the last—  
_  
“Yeah, like somethin’ with the Ashla or whatever?”  
  
“Well, the Ashla is in all of us, Zeblove…” _If I were to lose you—_  
  
“Aw, you did. I know it.” He gathered her close and caressed her cheek, tracing the wispy stripes that peeked out from under her hair. “My powerful, beautiful lady saved me.”  
  
Shulma found herself shaking even at his warm, familiar touch. And yet something inside her chided her for her fear: _Why are you getting so worked up over words in an old book?_ _Why don’t you just stop worrying and enjoy his embrace, his laughing eyes, the stripes that swirl so merrily over his arms? See how he’s leaning in to kiss you? Let him!_  
  
_And yet—what if—  
_  
“It was the least I could do for my Zeblove—but listen—”  
  
“What? Something wrong?”  
  
“About the Warrior—it’s—you’re—well—”  
  
“I’m _what?!_ ”  
  
Shulma took a deep breath. “They say that the last warrior to scale the Warrior is the last warrior of Lasan.”  
  
“The last warrior to scale the Warrior is—” Zeb repeated, then broke into laughter. “Aw, this is something from one of your ancient writings, isn’t it?”  
  
“From one of _our_ ancient writings. Fourth Tractate of Prophecy, book three, chapter… stop laughing, ai Garazeb! Don’t you understand what this means?! _You_ were the last to climb the Warrior before it fell! And if you’re the last warrior, then—a Lasan without warriors is no Lasan!”  
  
“Karabast, you prophecy-types always take this kinda stuff way too seriously!” Zeb slapped his knee and laughed anew. “‘Last warrior of Lasan,’ eh? Bet that could mean all sorts of things. Could mean Lasan’ll have peace and no one’ll need to fight anymore. What about that, eh?”  
  
“Yes, of course—anything is possible, but—there is simply no way for us mortal Lasat to know.” She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder; a tear began to course down her cheek. “Oh Zeblove, I _wish_ I knew—but I don’t, and that—that frightens me.”  
  
“Aw, darlin’.” Zeb took her gently in his arms, nuzzling her dark, fragrant hair. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve gotcha.”  
  
“But dearest—oh—” She collapsed in tears onto his shoulder.  
  
“It’ll be all right, darlin’. Even if I’m the last warrior of Lasan, I’ll use my dying breath to fight for my wild mountain flower.” He kissed away the falling tears; she breathed deeply as he did so, calming a little with each kiss and each moment until her sobs stopped. Finally he smiled at her, green eyes twinkling. “Now how about some lunch?”

* * *

  
The lunch was tranquil, pleasant, and hearty. Forming its centerpiece were two flake-dough savory pastries with goat cheese and greens that Zeb had picked up from one of their favorite food carts in Lira Zel, and the the warm scent and taste of this familiar food soon calmed Shulma’s nerves and lifted her spirits. Zeb had also brought a generous quantity of his grandmother’s famed fire-pepper sauce for dipping, along with a well-chilled bottle of Shulma’s favorite seerflower cordial and some bark beer for himself. There was spear-boar liver confit, a salad of mixed pickles, some mazna berry tarts, chocolate truffle balls from Lira Zel’s finest confectionery, and—lurking at the very bottom of the hamper—two small packages of spiced warra nuts.  
  
“Those? Shai threw ’em in,” Zeb explained through a mouthful of pastry in response to Shulma’s quizzical look. ”They’re from his own personal stash.”  
  
Shulma smiled. “He is a very caring and generous kit.”  
  
“‘I’m not a kit!’” Zeb’s face writhed comically as he imitated his brother’s voice. “‘I’m very mature for nineteen dust seasons, thank you very much! And your medallion is crooked! Better fix it or Captain Porifiros’ll send you to the mess hall to peel topatoes!’”  
  
Shulma was doubled over with laughter by the time Zeb reached the end of this humorous impression. At last she regained composure with the help of a few sips of cordial. “Oh, that was absolutely priceless!” she exclaimed. “Not that Captain Porifiros would ever send _my_ valiant warrior to any mess hall to peel topatoes. Or would he?” She winked.  
  
“Aw, well…” Zeb chewed sheepishly on another piece of pastry. “There was that one time on Groz’s birthday when we shaving-creamed one of the HG-AT-Rs to look like him… but technically that was rootabaggas.”  
  
“Then maybe we’d better double-check your medallion, just in case.” Shulma put down her bottle of cordial and peered at the burnished bronze Honor Guard medallion that adorned the right breast of Zeb’s uniform vest. Very carefully she took its edges in her fingertips and shifted it slightly. “Ah, I see why it’s a little off. Something’s beating behind there. Rather forcefully.”  
  
“You surprised?” He took her hand in his and pressed it to his heart.  
  
“Not really.” She let him hold her hand there for a few moments, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat, then gently freed it to make one more minute adjustment to the medallion. “There! I don’t think the good captain can argue with that! How is he, by the way? Did your deployment go well?”  
  
“Oh, it was all right, and the capt’s his usual self.” Zeb swigged some of his bark beer. “Loves it out there in the Basalt Mountains, of course. They’re his home turf, y’know. Always on about the mountain air and the ozone and all. ‘Up an’ at ’em, Guards! Feel that fresh mountain breeze! Smell that ozone! It’s good for ya! Now get out there an’ climb, you sissy city kits!’” He sighed and took another gulp. “‘’Course, y’know what they say—a true Honor Guard can climb Mount Sketh with a broken foot, a punctured lung, and no climbing gear, an’ all that. I don’t mind mountains, but karabast, I’m just glad to be done with the ozone.”  
  
“I don’t blame you,” replied Shulma, nibbling a few warra nuts. “Mount Straga sometimes gets like that just before a storm. Some of the ancient authorities say it can induce certain kinds of vision trances, but all I usually get from it is a headache.”  
  
Zeb sidled closer to her, interlacing his foot with hers. “’Course, the ozone’s not the only reason I’m glad to be back.”  
  
“I’m glad you’re back, too.” She sighed as she leaned against him and squeezed his arm. “And no sooner do I have you back than I almost lose you. Oh Zeblove—” _No. Don’t dwell on it. He’s here beside you now. Let that be enough._ She swallowed and continued. “Just—what were you trying to do up there, anyway?”  
  
“Aw, that.” Zeb, who had been reaching for one of the mazna berry tarts, paused for a moment. “Well, y’see, I… er…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I… er... thought I had something in my pocket. But… er… it turned out I didn’t.”  
  
“That much was manifestly clear.” Shulma sipped her cordial, then took one of the truffles from its dainty flimsiboard box. “But I would very much like to know why you were taking things out of your pocket on top of the Warrior. That does not seem wise.”  
  
“Because… well, I’ll show ya. Just one sec.” Zeb turned the hamper toward him so that its open lid hid both him and the interior from Shulma’s view, and began rummaging in it. “It’s gotta be in here somewhere…” As he rummaged further, Shulma heard the sound of unzipping; apparently the hamper had several inner compartments that she had not noticed. “Karabast, if I forgot it I’ll never forgive myself… ah, got it! Now close your eyes, darlin’!”  
  
Shulma did so. She heard a brief rustling of cloth, then felt Zeb place something cool, heavy, and rough in her hands. Briefly she ran a hand over it and bristled slightly at the sharp, crystalline edges she felt.  
  
“All right, you can open ’em now.”  
  
Shulma opened her eyes to see in her hands a large, irregularly shaped piece of intensely red-purple crystalline stone, shot through with golden flecks and veins. It sparkled with firelike brilliance as the sunlight struck it. She recognized it as kreposkolite, one of the most prized semi-precious minerals from the Basalt Mountains region—and an unusually large and pure specimen, at that. But even more striking to her was the meaning this specimen would have in the traditional Lasat language of stones: deep red shades signified true love, gold striations stood for eternal fidelity, and kreposkolite was one of the few minerals on Lasan that had both. If it was what she thought it was...  
  
“Y’see,” Zeb was explaining meanwhile, “what I wanted to do up there was hold it up in the sunlight to make a… big burst o’ light for you. Or somethin’. But I, um, couldn’t, of course. Because it was, er, down here. So, yeah, uh, here it is.”  
  
“But, Zeb—why—wait a minute—is this—”  
  
“Yeah, it’s… it’s for you.”  
  
“Zeb…”  
  
Zeb shifted closer and placed his hands on hers, surrounding them and the stone. “Look, Shulma, I—I wanted to ask—if you—I mean—it would make me so happy if—if you would maybe—I mean—aw karabast, Shulma, will you, er—will you marry me?”  
  
“Oh Zeblove…” Shulma felt her heart thumping as she gazed up at him. Again the fears and doubts nagged at her: _But what if something happens? What if you lose him? WHAT IF—  
_  
And then she felt the warmth of his hands, saw the green smile of his eyes, heard the deep, rugged voice she so loved: “So, er… erm… whaddaya say?”  
  
“Yes!” Her heart burst with joy as she threw her arms around his neck, leaving the stone in her lap. “Yes! Of course I shall marry you, last warrior of Lasan!”  
  
“Aw, darlin’… heh…”  
  
“Whatever may happen to us, to our world…” She nestled closer to him as she spoke, letting his beard brush her cheek. “I am yours, my mighty bristlecone, my Garazeb!”  
  
“Aw, Shulma… darlin’... you’re so… I mean, I’m so… I, er… aw, karabast...” There was nothing more he could say as his strong arms encircled her, and they kissed among the mazna flowers, beneath the ruins of the Warrior.

* * *

“I wonder if those two are all right,” Priska remarked to Maranga as they sat together at the head of the trail. “D’you think we should go check on them?”  
  
“ _Check_ on them?” Maranga snorted in reply. “What’s to check on? They’re probably locked in a big, wet smooch even as we speak.”  
  
Priska shoved Maranga in the upper arm. “Don’t _even!_ You know what I’m talking about! The Warrior and all… karabast, the landscape just looks wrong without it there…”  
  
“Yes, and? You know how these old formations are. They can fall two hundred years from now, they can fall today. It was bound to happen sometime.”  
  
“Yeah, guess so...”  
  
“All the strapping young bucks are just going to have to find something else to climb on Storms’ End, that’s all. Like the Gateway Spire over on Klegg’s Cliff, or—hey! What’s that?”  
  
The sound of two happy voices laughing and conversing—one husky and male, the other lyrical and female—filtered up the trail toward them. In a few moments, two figures came into view on the hill above: Zeb and Shulma, walking arm in arm along the trail. Zeb hefted the picnic hamper on his back, with the Honor Guard blanket and the two cushions tied on top. Shulma’s leather satchel was slung over her shoulder, but she also seemed to be carrying something in her hand—something she occasionally looked down at with a smile.  
  
“It’s them! C’mon!” Priska jumped up, gesturing to Maranga to join her, and they both ran down the trail to meet the newcomers. “There you are!” she shouted at last as she caught up with her brother and clapped him on the shoulder; he staggered slightly under the hamper but righted himself. “Are you two okay? For a sec I thought—oh ho! I knew it!” She gaped as she caught the ruddy gleam of the object in Shulma’s hand. “Let’s see, let’s see!”  
  
Shulma held up the stone for Priska to see, and the Guardswoman broke into a toothy smile as she examined it. “Aw, that’s gorgeous! Just look at that color! And those gold flecks are awesome! Aren’t _you_ a lucky girl!” She thumped Shulma jovially on the back; all the young shaman could do was smile through her blushes.  
  
Maranga ran up beside them. “Waaait a minute! Gold flecks? Lucky girl? What the Bogan is going on here?!”  
  
“What’s going on here is that MY BABY BROTHER’S GOT HIMSELF A _BRIDE!_ ” She emphasized this utterance with a punch to Zeb’s shoulder, causing the hamper on his back to wobble. “AWWWW, IT’S SOOOO SWEEET!” And so saying, Priska descended on her brother with a vigorous noogie.  
  
“Hey! Knock that off!” he growled, staggering under the weight of the hamper as he wriggled free and shoved her out of the way.  
  
“Can’t help it, little bro! I’m too happy for ya!” She shoved him back.  
  
“Aw, is that how it’s gonna be?” He grinned as he shoved her yet again, and for several moments they exchanged shoves, punches, and noogies as they descended the rocky slope.  
  
Meanwhile, Maranga was eyeing the stone in in Shulma’s hand. “Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all,” she mused, running a finger over it. “You really _are_ a lucky girl, you know that?”  
  
“Aw, he’s lucky, too!” Priska ran up to noogie Shulma, too, causing a gasp of surprise that softened into calm laughter as the Guardswoman put her arm around her. “Welcome to the family, kiddo.”  
  
“Thank you, big sister.”  
  
Once again she linked her arm with Zeb’s, and the trail seemed no longer so steep as four young Lasat wended their way home in the softening sunlight.  
  
**the end**

**Author's Note:**

> Maranga Patithi: An OC named after the real-life baroque percussionist [Marie-Ange Petit](http://www.resta-percussions.com/en/signatures-artists/marie-ange-petit/).
> 
> Basalt Mountains: Fanon. Mountain range located in the southern hemisphere of Lasan, famed for its mineral riches but also for its dangers, and the site of Zeb’s deployment in the previous story in this series, "From the Mountain’s Heart."
> 
> Mount Straga: Fanon. The mountain atop which the Royal Lasat Academy of Shamans is located. See the [Lasat fanon post](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430).
> 
> spark-flinger: Meant to be a somewhat pejorative epithet for a Lasat shaman. See the [Lasat fanon post](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430) under the heading “Shamanism.”
> 
> ring-medallion: In my fanon extrapolation, the round hair ornament worn by Chava the Wise is worn by all female Lasat shamans as an emblem of their station. (The male shamans would wear the same emblem pinned to their clothing or around their necks, since most adult male Lasat don’t have head hair.)
> 
> The Warrior: Fanon, created by Raissa_Baiard. The tallest rock formation overlooking the capital city of Lira Zel. See the [Lasat fanon post](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430) and Raissa’s story [The Beginning of Honor](http://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-beginning-of-honor-rebels-zeb-backstory-part-four-10-10-17.50045958/).
> 
> On the fanon Lasat custom of young men climbing the Warrior on Storms’ End, see the [Lasat fanon post](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430) under “Children, Family, Courtship.” Zeb’s first climb of the Warrior is described in Raissa's [The Beginning of Honor](http://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-beginning-of-honor-rebels-zeb-backstory-part-four-10-10-17.50045958/).
> 
> Zeb’s Gran: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Garazeb_Orrelios%27s_grandmother
> 
> Gran’s fire-pepper sauce: Borrowed from Raissa_Baiard, who mentions it in chapter 1 of [The Beginning of Honor](http://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-beginning-of-honor-rebels-zeb-backstory-part-four-10-10-17.50045958/).
> 
> mazna berries and flowers: Fanon, created by Raissa Baiard. See the [Lasat fanon post](http://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430) under the heading “Flora.”
> 
> Mount Sketh: Fanon. One of the prominent peaks in the Basalt Mountains; again, see "From the Mountain’s Heart."
> 
> The Gateway Spire and Klegg’s Cliff are also fanon locations in the cliffs surrounding Lira Zel. 
> 
> An HG-AT-R is an Honor Guard All-Terrain Rover. Fanon, perhaps unsurprisingly.
> 
> rootabaggas: Fanon. GFFA rutabagas, of course—not very original, I know.
> 
> Zeb’s heart: The placement of the Lasat heart on the right (rather than on the left, as in Humans) is a fanon bit of my own that first appeared in another story of mine that can be found here on AO3 “Turn Your Head and Cough; or, The Checkup.”


End file.
